


The Night Before the Rest of Their Lives

by AnonymousDandelion



Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Feels, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Banter, Choofe your faces wiseley, Comfort, Communication, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Queerplatonic Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Resolved Misunderstandings, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), They get a hug, Tired Crowley (Good Omens), Words of Affirmation, but it's going to be okay, feelings of hopelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27786229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousDandelion/pseuds/AnonymousDandelion
Summary: “Who was it you lost?" Aziraphale says softly. “When I was… ah, when I was looking for a body. You said you lost someone. Your best friend.”Crowley stares. Whatever the expression on his face, it is evidently sufficiently outraged that it makes Aziraphale take half a step backwards. “Crowley…”“You. Bleeding.Idiot,” Crowley grits out. "That wasyou."~ ~ ~The obligatory night-after-Armageddon't. Featuring emotions, expression of emotions, misunderstandings, resolving of misunderstandings, long-overdue words of affirmation, comfort, communication, cuddling, sprinklings of banter, and the interpretation of a prophecy.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 305
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	The Night Before the Rest of Their Lives

**Author's Note:**

> Because, obviously, everyone was _desperately_ in need of yet another rendition of That Night At Crowley's Flat. :P Does this mean my initiation into the Good Omens fandom is finally complete?
> 
> At any rate, I hope you enjoy this!

Crowley leads the way to his flat, Aziraphale following a step or two behind.

This is a first. Before, there was never any reason for Crowley to invite Aziraphale to the flat — and there was always plenty of reason against it, between the ever-present threat of an unexpected Hellish visitation and the fact that Crowley has never genuinely _lived_ here anyway. In the highly unlikely event that he were being honest, Crowley might admit that the bookshop has long come far closer to being his home than the flat ever has. And then, of course, there’s the Bentley…

But the Bentley is gone now. And so is the bookshop. And here Crowley and Aziraphale are, in the Mayfair flat.

“Oh!” Aziraphale halts on the threshold beside Crowley and stares into the room ahead of them, apparently distracted enough to at least partially shake the dazed look the angel has had ever since the airfield. “You didn’t tell me you keep plants, Crowley. Goodness, these are—”

“Don’t,” Crowley interrupts tiredly.

“Pardon?”

“They…” Cowley isn’t sure if Aziraphale was about to compliment the plants’ greenery, comment on their notable ambience of fear, or both. Either way, he doesn’t currently feel up to explaining his gardening techniques. “Ugh, never mind. Just don’t talk to them. Or about them, while they’re in hearing distance.”

Aziraphale’s forehead wrinkles, but he seems to decide not to argue. “So this is your flat,” he observes instead.

“Yeah.” Crowley scrubs at his face. “Sorry. ‘S not your kind of place. Not comfortable.”

“It’s very…” Aziraphale searches, visibly, for a word. “Very majestic.”

“You don’t have to pretend to like it,” Crowley tells him.

“Well, you certainly needn’t apologize for your own home,” Aziraphale returns with unexpected tartness, “when I’m the one intruding.”

“You’re not intruding.” That, at least, is one truth that Crowley can be confident of, even if everything else that he’s refusing to let himself think about is too much to cope with right now. “Don’t think that’d be possible,” he adds. He’s hard put to conceive of a scenario in which Aziraphale’s presence in Crowley’s life could ever be unwanted.

Aziraphale looks startled. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Anyhow.” Crowley shrugs, pushing on past the moment. “‘S not homey. Not home, really. But.” He waves vaguely around, and unsuccessfully attempts a rakish grin. “Make yourself at home.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says quietly — and, watching Crowley, doesn’t move.

“There’s some gourmet stuff in the fridge, if you somehow have an appetite.” Crowley gestures Aziraphale on. “Go ahead. ‘S fine, the anti-angel wards won’t bother you.”

“I’m not worried about your _wards,”_ Aziraphale begins indignantly — then just shakes his head and does as instructed.

Crowley waits a moment to follow, leaning his cheek briefly against the door frame. Someone, he’s tired…

_“Crowley!”_

The note of alarm in Aziraphale’s voice has Crowley hurling himself into the room almost before his name is out of the angel’s mouth. Shit, what was he _thinking_ , sending Aziraphale in ahead without scouting first, what if something was in there waiting, what if something happened, what…

“What is _that?”_ Aziraphale sounds more disturbed than outright panicked, Crowley realizes, which is a bit of a relief. He looks along the angel’s pointing finger to…

Oh. Fuck. Of course. Ligur. Or, more accurately, the puddle of gruesome goo that was formerly Ligur.

“ _What,”_ Aziraphale repeats, slower now, “is that?”

Crowley grimaces. “Ligur.”

“What?”

“Not what. Who. Lizard. Duke. Demon. Ngk. Sorry. Slipped my mind. Long day.”

It says something about the kind of day Crowley has had, that destroying another demon with holy water, watching him melt and hearing him scream and stepping over the residue on the way out, could be remotely forgettable.

“You’re not explaining anything,” Aziraphale says tightly.

Crowley winces. “Holy water.”

“Crowley…”

“The holiest, you said. That thermos of yours, right?” He makes another bid for a smile, and suspects his failure this time is even more ghoulish than his previous effort. “Guess it worked.”

“But… how… why… when…”

“Showed up here with his partner. Right around when you called me, actually. Remember? Told you it wasn’t a good time.” The time that Aziraphale needed him, and Crowley didn’t come. And then the fire, and he’d thought that was the last thing he’d ever get to say to Aziraphale, and…

“Oh, Crowley.” Abruptly, Aziraphale seems utterly heartbroken. “Oh, _no_.”

Wrenched from one rapidly deteriorating train of thought straight onto another — surely the angel didn’t actually read his mind? — Crowley tries frantically to figure out an explanation for the sudden horror on Aziraphale’s face, so he can do something to try to help ease it.

Revulsion at Crowley, for having committed such an abhorrent act? It’s certainly possible. The bucket trick may have been done in self-defense, true, but at the end of the day it was still murder…

Concern over Crowley himself having come so close to the deadly substance? Also possible, given Aziraphale’s long-established disapproval of Crowley’s having anything to do with holy water…

Both of the above? That could also go towards explaining the extent of Aziraphale’s distress, if his feelings are conflicted…

But none of these hypotheses precisely account for the fact that Aziraphale is going on with, “Oh no, and I never even said… I’m so very sorry, Crowley.”

“Huh?” Crowley manages.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” says Aziraphale.

Whatever Crowley might have been expecting, it was definitely not that. He splutters wrong-footedly for a moment, then reiterates, “Huh?”

“He… your old friend, you called him.” Aziraphale glances at the puddle, then, sorrowfully, back to Crowley. “And, oh, it was my water that did it.”

Crowley balks. “Ligur wasn’t… he was here to _collect_ me, to take me to a horrifically painful eternity in Hell! I’d be down there in the torture pits now if not for that water!”

If possible, Aziraphale appears even more anguished, which was not Crowley’s intent. “That makes it even worse, then. Your friend, and he betrayed you…“

“For Heav- He- uh, whichever. No, forget that. Look. Aziraphale.” Crowley flings his hands out in front of him. “Ligur was not ever my friend _._ We don’t do friendship in Hell anyhow, you’d definitely be right about the betrayal thing if we did. But Ligur, he’s — well, he _was_ — a nasty piece of work. Even for a demon, I mean. Him and Hastur both. Trust me on that. _Not_ my friend.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale drops his gaze. “But you said…”

“‘Old friend,’ yeah, I know. That was sarcasm. You never did get the hang of it.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again. Then, softly, “Who was it you lost, then? I didn’t even… I should have asked you earlier.”

Crowley does some more sputtering. “What are you talking about?”

“When I was… ah, when I was looking for a body. You said you lost someone. Your best friend.”

Crowley stares. Whatever the expression on his face, it is evidently sufficiently outraged that it makes Aziraphale take half a step backwards. “Crowley…”

“You. Bleeding. _Idiot_ ,” Crowley grits out.

“I- I’m sorry…”

“It was _you_ ,” Crowley growls.

“Me?” Aziraphale looks nonplussed, then freshly aghast. “ _My_ fault? Oh, but how— I never— how could I have—”

“Shut. Up.”

Aziraphale shuts up, eyes still agonized, hands wringing.

Crowley grips the back of his throne with both hands for support, because he’s reasonably sure he can’t count on his own legs to hold him up at the moment. “Angel. My best friend. The person I was talking about. Aziraphale. You stupid, stupid, _stupid_ Aziraphale. The person I lost. That was _you_.”

Aziraphale freezes. “But, but. But, I wasn’t… I was just…”

 _“You were gone!”_ Crowley howls, the words tearing their way out from somewhere deep in his core, desperate and raw, that he’s been trying to block out. “You were _gone_ , and it was burning, and I couldn’t sense you anywhere, and I didn’t know what happened, for all I knew it was Hellfire, and even if you were only discorporated I was still never going to see you again, and you… I… I couldn’t…”

His voice cracks, and Crowley becomes aware that sometime in the past minute or so his corporation began shaking uncontrollably, and he let go of the throne to wave his hands wildly in the air. His knees really are about to give out on him.

Except that, all at once, something is keeping him from falling. Arms, circling his shoulders, wrapping around his torso, pulling him close, holding him up, _holding_ him… 

“I _couldn’t,”_ Crowley gasps hoarsely against Aziraphale’s neck, and the angel squeezes him tighter, and doesn’t let go.

Crowley has no idea how much time passes while they simply stand there. At some point, his arms come up almost of their own accord, folding around Aziraphale in return, hanging on to the angel’s solidity like it’s a lifeline.

Eventually, grudgingly, he draws back, out of the embrace. Aziraphale’s arms loosen, then drop to hang by his sides. His face appears damp. Crowley rather suspects his own eyes of being less than totally dry themselves.

“So,” Crowley finally says. “Um. Yeah.”

Aziraphale blinks, opens and closes his mouth a few times, and doesn’t say anything.

“We should, ngh,” says Crowley. “Sit down?”

“Right,” Aziraphale replies after a moment, and looks dubiously at the throne. “Where…”

“Sofa,” Crowley suggests, indicating the opposite wall of the lounge, and takes a couple steps in that direction. Not that the sofa is much more comfortable than the throne, but at least the seat is wider. “‘S not as nice as yours,” he almost-apologizes over his shoulder — and freezes, shivering, caught in the vision called up by thought of the bookshop sofa.

“I’m sure your sofa is perfectly functional,” Aziraphale says, his voice pulling Crowley’s mind out of the flames. The angel starts to follow Crowley to the sofa, then stops. “I’d prefer to take care of this first, though.” He nods at Ligur’s remains, still pooling repulsively by the office door. “I don’t like leaving it there.”

“Spoils the mood, does it?” Crowley tries to joke.

“It makes me uneasy.”

Crowley sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, no, you’re right. Can’t say I’m the biggest fan of it either, to be honest. Should probably clean it up.”

Reluctantly — all his instincts are telling him he wants nothing at all to do with the substance on the floor, and in this particular case Crowley’s instincts’ evaluation of his desires is correct on all counts — he approaches the puddle, halting a couple of paces away to probe experimentally at its metaphysical content. Does holy water stay holy once diluted with demon?

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asks, sharply, from behind him.

Crowley pivots. “What does it look like I’m doing? You’re the one who said to take care of this.”

“I didn’t mean _you!”_ Aziraphale snaps. “Don’t be a fool. That’s… that was holy water! You shouldn’t be getting anywhere near it. I’ll do the cleaning.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, because no other response comes to mind. “I... okay. If you say so.”

“I do say so. Now stand clear, please. You’re far too close to that mess for my comfort.”

Taken aback by the angel’s vehemence — not to mention the implication that Crowley’s safety has some bearing on _Aziraphale’s_ comfort — Crowley does as he’s told. He watches as the angel walks a semicircle around the puddle, cautiously inspects the demonic sludge, then makes a series of hand gestures, unusually complex for a seemingly simple cleansing job.

The puddle disappears, and with it goes a miniscule fraction of Crowley’s jitteriness. One more snap of the fingers, and Aziraphale turns back to Crowley. “That should do it. Now, let’s sit.”

They make their way silently to the sofa. Crowley doesn’t even make any comment, aside from a snort and eye roll, when the white leather covering transforms to a much more comfortable tartan an instant before they sit down, separated on the cushions by less than two feet.

“Your best friend?” Aziraphale murmurs after a few minutes.

There’s something in the angel’s voice, tremulous and wondering, that Crowley can’t quite interpret — or perhaps he’s just not quite brave enough to dare to try to interpret it. “Yeah?” he grunts, when Aziraphale gives no indication that he is going to say anything else.

“Did you…” Aziraphale swallows, audibly. “Did you mean it?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Crowley mutters.

“I didn’t think you would still…” Aziraphale falters.

Crowley fidgets with the tartan armrest.

In a low voice, Aziraphale says, “I told you we weren’t friends.”

The words are a punch in the chest all over again, branding themselves into Crowley’s heart, and he can’t completely hide his flinch. He fixes his eyes on the ceiling, since he doesn't trust himself to look at Aziraphale at the moment without letting some extremely inopportune emotions to the surface. “Yep, well. Too bad for you. You’re still _my_ friend, you don’t get any say on that part. Doesn’t have to go both directions.”

“Crowley…”

“‘S fine,” Crowley lies. It is not fine. In no sense is it fine. But he doesn't need to tell Aziraphale that.

“Crowley…”

 _“I sssaid it’ss fine!”_ Crowley hisses, and actively does not think about crying on Aziraphale’s shoulder while they held each other, less than half an hour ago. “I get it. You’re an angel, I’m a demon, you don’t even like me, you’re only in my flat because you have no other option, you’d never dream of fraternizing.” It’s not true. They both know it’s not true. But if Aziraphale still insists on pretending it is, even now that they — no, that’s the thing Crowley can’t cope with thinking about right now, move on — if Aziraphale still insists on pretending, does the truth even matter? “I get it, you don’t have to rub it in. I just—”

 _“Crowley!”_ Aziraphale all but shouts. “Stop it!”

Crowley stops, more from surprise than for any other reason.

“I _lied,”_ says Aziraphale.

Crowley bites back another hiss. Fine, then. If Aziraphale is determined to have this conversation now, they can have this conversation now. Crowley really, really doesn’t want to, but what difference has it ever made what Crowley wants?

“I _know,”_ he says resignedly. “You’ve been lying to Heaven for centuries, and you're horribly guilty about it, and now we’re both going to be in trouble” — nope, not thinking about that — “and it’s all my fault. Oh, but then you probably should’ve expected it of me all along, because I’m a foul, scheming snake in the grass and you really ought to have known better than to speak to me to begin with, let alone listen to me.” He pauses, feeling overwhelmingly weary. “Go on, what’d I miss? Something about ineffability?”

“What? No, that is not at _all_ …” Aziraphale sounds frustrated, a tone with which Crowley is exceedingly familiar. In another context, he might have allowed himself to find it endearing. As it is, Crowley just slumps, too exhausted even to goad any further, and waits for Aziraphale to say his piece.

“No, Crowley. _No._ That’s not what I… what I mean to say is.” The angel takes a quick breath, then resumes in a rush, “What I mean to say is that you are amazing and the most wonderful and important thing in my life and you matter quite a lot to me and I care about you more than Heaven or books or crêpes or anything or anyone else and you are by far the best friend I have ever had.”

Crowley forgets to keep staring at the ceiling.

 _“And,”_ Aziraphale continues, at a somewhat more moderate tempo, “I have been a terrible friend to you, and I realize that, and I hurt you, and I know you deserve so much better, and I’m sorry.”

He stops talking, having apparently run out of words. His eyes flick towards Crowley, then away again. Up, to the side, down to the floor. Grey-blue, earnest, eloquent… sad.

“Angel,” Crowley tries to say, and discovers to his acute dismay that his vocal cords aren’t working. He gives his corporation a strong, silent reprimand, then tries again. This time he does manage to get the word out, albeit still at a croak. _“Angel.”_

“Yes?” There’s a faint, tense tremor in Aziraphale’s voice, which he is probably attempting to conceal (and, if so, is doing a truly spectacularly bad job of concealing). The angel avoids Crowley’s gaze.

“Can I…” Crowley points inarticulately at Aziraphale, then at himself, waves his finger in a convoluted helix, and finally gives up and just lunges across the sofa. He ends up in an extraordinarily inelegant position, one leg twisted under the other, one arm slung gracelessly against the backrest. Most importantly, however, his second arm succeeds at sliding behind Aziraphale and winding itself around the angel’s waist.

Aziraphale makes a startled _oh_ sound, and goes even tenser. Crowley has just enough time to regret everything — but, fortunately, not enough time to do anything to act on that regret — before Aziraphale shifts position, leaning into Crowley and reaching out with his own arm to draw him nearer, until Crowley is all but on top of the angel.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Crowley disentangles his legs from each other, and relocates his free hand to his knees, so that he can more effectively recline on Aziraphale. 

A minute later, light, warm fingers graze the back of Crowley’s hand. Slowly, slowly, slowly, Aziraphale’s palm settles across it.

Crowley tightens the arm that is encircling Aziraphale’s waist, feeling the tautness gradually draining out of the angel’s corporation — and Aziraphale makes no move to pull away, nor to push Crowley away.

At some point, Crowley remembers to go back to breathing.

“Thanks,” he says after a while longer.

Aziraphale jumps slightly. “For what?”

“Uh." _For existing. For making what may be the last night of my existence_ — wait, stop, not thinking about that — _the best night of my existence._ _For being my friend._ “For cleaning up Ligur.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale relaxes. “Well, of course. I wasn’t about to risk you getting near that… residuum… when there was a chance it was still holy. It was perfectly harmless for _me_.” He pauses, then conscientiously appends, “If rather unpleasant. Do you know, I don’t believe I have ever before encountered anything quite so foul.”

“Not even me?” Crowley quips, then wishes he hadn’t when Aziraphale tenses again, face falling.

“ _Very much_ not you,” the angel returns, with emphasis. “Exactly the opposite, as it happens. When I said that you are, er, amazing and the most wonderful and important thing in my life—”

“Did you memorize that speech?” Crowley interrupts, rudeness being his only defense against a collection of emotions that are well on their way to becoming entirely unmanageable.

“Er.” Aziraphale’s face, already pinkish, colors more. "Possibly. I… I wanted to get the words right, for you.” He makes a rueful expression. “I’m afraid I may have done a bit of a poor job of delivering them, though.”

“You did just fine,” Crowley tells him gruffly.

“ _Anyway_ ,” says Aziraphale, frowning at Crowley, “don’t change the subject. When I said it, I mean it. There is nothing even remotely foul about you, and there never has been. Well” — he taps a finger on Crowley’s wrist a few times, in the manner of a man-shaped being who is taking great pains to be scrupulously accurate in his assertions — “that is, setting aside the incidents with the skunks.”

“That was not my fault!” Crowley objects.

“The second time, perhaps it wasn’t,” Aziraphale concedes. “Regardless, the outcome was the same. And the first time was _definitely_ your fault.”

Crowley scowls.

“At any rate,” says Aziraphale, “you _are_ amazing and wonderful and not foul. And I, I know I…” He trails off.

“Hey.” Crowley can feel his glower shifting to something… different. Softer, probably. He doesn’t even bother to make more than a halfhearted attempt to prevent it from happening — partly because he suspects it’s a lost cause, partly because he’s not at all certain he actually _wants_ to prevent it from happening. “Y’know, that thing you said, about — what was it — deserving? Or something along those lines?”

“Yes?” Aziraphale looks and sounds wary. “What about it?"

“It wasn’t true.”

“Crowley, you _are—”_

“Not my point,” Crowley interjects before Aziraphale can start torturing him with compliments again. “Point is, whatever I may or may not deserve, I couldn’t have better than you anyway. Because there’s no such thing.”

“...Oh,” says Aziraphale, and doesn’t say anything more for some time.

Crowley presses closer into his side.

“I imagine,” Aziraphale says at last, “if I try to argue you’ll just start arguing back?”

Crowley smirks. “Want to run the risk? Should warn you, I’m an expert at arguing. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Is that what you said to Paddy, that time in Ireland?”

“Oy, not fair. That had nothing to do with my arguing skills. Patrick was a wanker. If he’d only _listened_ …”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “In any case, I suppose it’s probably not worth the trouble of trying to stop you from… from saying what you said about me, then. Even if I don’t agree.”

“Definitely not worth the trouble,” Crowley concurs. “Besides, you’d be objectively wrong. You couldn’t thwart me on this one if you tried.”

“On the condition,” Aziraphale adds sternly, “that you don’t try to stop me from saying things about you. Because you _are_ the best thing that ever happened to anybody, and I won’t stand for anyone claiming otherwise, you included.”

Crowley huffs, and glares, but in the end he decides to let it go, at least for the time being. Mainly because he’s enjoying their collaborative sitting too much to be in the mood for exerting himself to do anything other than experiment with how snugly he can squash himself against Aziraphale before the angel has had enough. So far, remarkably, there is no sign that the having-enough part of that is ever going to happen.

He can feel it immediately in Aziraphale’s corporation, hand and arm and torso muscles stiffening, when the angel starts thinking again.

“Don’t,” Crowley whispers, almost pleading. He has a bad feeling he knows where Aziraphale’s head is going… and he does not want to go there, not now, not yet, not when they were feeling so comfortable, so relaxed, so _good_.

Aziraphale blows out a long gust of air. _“Soon enouff,”_ he quotes in an undertone, _“ye will be playing with Fyre.”_

And dammit _,_ the thing that's been looming over them ever since the bus stop comes crashing down on Crowley, and so much for all his fervent efforts to avoid thinking about it, and so much for feeling good, and there goes all the relaxation, and here comes all the terror and despair and crawling panic.

“I presume the prophecy refers to Hellfire,” Aziraphale goes on — carefully, excruciatingly calm. “Heaven will want to… to execute judgment on their traitor. To the furthest extent possible. Gabriel said it, didn’t he? _At least we know whose fault this is._ ”

The resignation and weariness in his voice, the unmitigated certainty and acceptance that Heaven will brook no defense and show no clemency… it hurts, deep in Crowley’s gut, to hear it spoken like that by Aziraphale. And the worst of it is that he can’t even try to dispute the statement, because both of them know that Aziraphale is undoubtedly correct in his assessment.

“How d’you reckon Heaven would go about getting Hellfire, though?” Crowley says finally. “I mean, it’s not like Sandalphon could just… summon some up from the depths of Tartarus, or go on a stroll to dump you in the lake of fire, or something.” He suppresses a scream of utter unbearable agony at the mental image that his own words conjure.

Aziraphale looks at him. “Do you really think the archangels are going to be stopped by a simple matter of access?”

“No,” Crowley admits. He swallows around the sick feeling rising in his stomach. “We both know they’re not above temporary cooperation with Hell, with sufficient mutual motivation. And Beelzebub is bound to have it out for me now, at least as much as Gabriel for you.” He tries for humor. “Mind you, _I_ wouldn’t want to be responsible for informing all the armed legions of the Underworld that the war they’ve spent six millennia banking on got a last-minute cancellation. And ze already wasn’t happy with me, what with the whole losing-the-Antichrist business. Can’t say I blame zem for wanting payback, all things considered.”

“I blame zem,” says Aziraphale curtly.

“Yeah, well. So do I, come to think of it,” Crowley acknowledges. “Still, though. So… they swap traitors, Heaven takes me, Hell takes you” — _nononononono_ — “pop our clogs, and that’s the end of it? It’ll be holy water for me, I assume. Seems fairly fitting, honestly, given Ligur. Hastur will be pissed about missing out on the fun, though, if they do the honors up in Heaven. Maybe they’ll live stream the occasion? Or just get an angel to bring the water on Downstairs. That way they could really go all out, do it in the Place of Trials and everything. Though having holy water in Hell seems kind of reckless…”

He feels Aziraphale’s entire corporation, nestled against Crowley’s own, shudder. _“Stop,_ Crowley. Please. You are truly not helping here.”

Crowley subsides, a little. “I’m right, though, you know I am. The mercy of Hell is an old joke. And Heaven’s mercy isn’t much better, from what I gather.”

Aziraphale makes no effort to refute that observation. “We’ll find a way to stop them. We have to. You are not going near holy water. I refuse to permit it.”

"Pity there’s nothing you can do about it,” Crowley says, without heat.

“Bad enough you had to open that thermos and use its contents today,” Aziraphale goes on, gaining in intensity. “Giving that to you was… it was the most painful thing I ever did. My worst fear, for such a long time. And now, I… you… I can’t… Crowley, _I can’t lose you_.”

Serpentine eyes are not supposed to have tear ducts. Not for the first time today, however, Crowley’s optical organs are proving themselves plenty capable of defying the laws of anatomy and producing tears anyway. He huddles in against Aziraphale. “I did lose you,” he whispers. “I couldn’t lose you either. I couldn’t, but I _did._ And I can’t let it happen again. But…”

It aches, this feeling of hopelessness. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Crowley is an optimist. He doesn’t give up. He never gives up. There has to be something more they can do. There _has_ to be. It can’t end like this. But… “I don’t think even Alpha Centauri is far enough anymore,” he finishes quietly.

“We’ll find a way,” Aziraphale says again, and Crowley isn’t sure which of them the angel is trying hardest to convince. “There’s a way, there must be a way. We just need to find it. The prophecy…”

“ _Choofe your faces wiseley,”_ Crowley quotes bitterly. “Right. So we’re supposed to, what, stick our tongues out when they come for us? Don’t get me wrong, I’m good at making faces, I can sneer with the best of them, but I somehow doubt the Lord of the Flies is going to get scared off by my fangs. Even Gabriel can handle a few maggots.”

“That’s not what the prophecy means, and you are well aware of that. It… it means something. We just need to work out _what_ it means. We just need an idea.”

Crowley closes his eyes. “I melted a Duke of Hell today, trapped another one in an answering machine, killed my car, and stopped time.” _Come up with something, or I’m never going to talk to you again…_ He reopens his eyes in order to look miserably at Aziraphale. “‘M sorry, angel. I’m fresh out of ideas.”

Aziraphale rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “Then I’ll think of something. And afterwards, you’ll tell me how you went about trapping a Duke of Hell in an answering machine.”

Crowley sighs.

Several minutes pass as they sit together.

“I spent centuries studying books of prophecy!” Aziraphale bursts out abruptly, agitatedly. “I worked out the phone number for the Antichrist himself overnight, for Go— well, for Earth’s sake, in any event. And that involved cross-referencing and interpreting the whole prophetic volume. This is just one short verse. How hard can it be?”

 _Pretty buggering hard, if our friendly neighborhood long-dead prognosticator can’t give us anything but cryptic riddles to work off of,_ Crowley doesn’t quite have the heart to say. “If anyone can figure it out, it’s you,” he offers instead.

“I hope you’re right,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I do hope so.”

They fall back into silence. The words of the prophecy spin through Crowley’s head, tangling and repetitive and absolutely _meaningless._

_Choofe your faces wiseley…_

Meaningless. Useless. Drivel. The way out is there, hidden in the words, just out of their reach. The way out is _there_ , and it makes no difference whatsoever because they can’t solve the puzzle, can’t connect the dots, can’t translate the elusive prophetic message into anything approaching coherence. Or maybe there is no real way out in the first place, and Agnes’s last word was just the witch’s idea of a joke. It hardly matters which it is.

“I’d go in your place if I could,” Crowley mumbles eventually. “Wouldn’t do any good, obviously, they’d notice. But I’d do it, if I thought I had any chance at keeping you safe.”

“I wouldn’t let you,” Aziraphale says sharply.

“Don’t care,” Crowley counters. “You couldn’t thwart me on that either. Do anything to keep you safe, you know I would.”

“And I assure you, the feeling is mutual.” Aziraphale shakes his head, still leaning against Crowley’s shoulder. “Therefore, we need to find a solution for _both_ of us.”

Crowley likes this iteration of _the feeling is mutual_ much, much better than the last time he heard that phrase coming out of Aziraphale’s mouth, he determines. He heaves another sigh. It feels incredibly unfair, the fact that Aziraphale has started saying things like this _now,_ when they’re not going to be alive long enough for Crowley to have the opportunity to properly luxuriate in it.

“‘S not like it’d be some sort of grand self-sacrificing move on my part anyway,” he points out. “Hellfire doesn’t hurt me. Same as holy water for you. Harmless. If we could take each other’s punishments, we’d be totally fine. Shame we can’t just go and do that, huh? Like a last hurrah of the Arrangement — we’re used to swapping assignments, after all. If only…”

He feels Aziraphale go suddenly still beside him.

Crowley frowns. “What is it?”

Aziraphale sits up to twist in the curve of Crowley’s arm, staring him full in the face. “Crowley. Oh, my dearest, Crowley. You are brilliant.”

“Nkh?” Crowley struggles not to get too sidetracked by questioning whether or not he imagined the comma before _dearest_. “Angel, what’re you—”

He breaks off, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes, wide and sky blue and… _hopeful?_

Hopeful.

“ _Choofe your faces wiseley,”_ Aziraphale breathes. “Oh, Crowley. I… I think I have an idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> ... and assuming you're familiar with TV canon, you know what Aziraphale's idea is, and you know that it all works out.
> 
> And thank you very much for reading my version of this well-worn fic classic! I hope you enjoyed the story. If you did, please consider leaving a comment to let me know what you thought (whether sentences, keysmashes, line quotes, emojis, or whatever your preferred medium of communication!); it means quite a lot to me, and consistently brightens my day in the void to hear from you lovely people.  
> If you're not up for commenting, that's totally okay too; your kudos are also always seen and loved, and I appreciate you for simply taking the time to read this.
> 
> In any case, do me a favor and have a good day. <3


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